Sage Ritskan Flash Fiction Series: Meet the Principal

"You know, it's funny you should ask, because my old school really was just like the Wild West."

"Saloons and floosies?" asked Mr. Peters. Mr. Peters had already put in his leave notice (off to the smoggy port appendage of Beijing known as Tianjin in the fall) so he was relishing the opportunity to be crass (borderline subordinate) with the new head honcho (wagering his daily peace for the chance to, for once in a rare while, push the new chief's buttons, pleasurably) on his way out the revolving door knows as Sage Ritskan School.

"Pretty much. Well...the saloons anyway," replied the new principal, Mr. Schlagenfucher.

"Allegedly, there are floosies to be found around here, as well as saloons," said an increasingly bold Mr. Peters. "Not that I would know."

Like a disinterested toddler in front of a butterless, saltless bowl of greens, Mr. Schlagenfucher disengaged this bout of infantilism and flipped his switch to silent stoicism, absent of ego, a calm breeze gusting from within, whistling through his peach-fuzzy ears like they were mystic kazoos. 

Just a week before his flight to the new school his aunt, the woman who raised him alongside her own flesh and blood, devoid of descrimination, pure with hot white intent, had passed away suddenly. A bridge accident was all he was told. Fond of both the card game and the engineered variety, Mr. Schlagenfucher thought it best not to inquire as to which variety of bridge did the poor old lady in, for it comforted him to believe that a doozy of the first variety was the experience to end her.

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